


Operation

by loveanddeathandartandtaxes



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Angsty Schmoop, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Schmoop, Valentine Art Exchange, apparently John is a MASH fan, drinking game, operation, post-series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:03:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/pseuds/loveanddeathandartandtaxes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They finish their tea and reset the game, checking that it all still works, and pour a few shots in preparation. Graciously - or connivingly, John can never be sure - Sherlock gestures for John to begin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Operation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nihlyria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nihlyria/gifts).



John has to admit he was surprised to come home to find Sherlock intently playing Operation on his own. Certainly not upset - he could've (and had) walked in on much more harmful pursuits - and he refuses to let confusion even enter the picture. There was always some kind of reason. He puts the kettle on.

“Haven’t played that in years,” he starts easily, getting out teabags and mugs.

“Clearly. You’re fond of it; you saved it from the bin when you helped Harry clear out her house, but left it here while you were living elsewhere.”

They have a meticulously constructed lexicon that does not deny that time of mourning, or the tumultuous eighteen months after it, but rather skirts around it all, carefully avoiding scraping against any still-rough edges. Time will eventually smooth the sharpness, John hopes.

“Yep. Any reason you've got it out tonight?”

“Expect a visit from Mycroft soon. He’ll want to try to beat me again.”

John thinks, quite distinctly, that he really loves Sherlock’s inevitable lapses into immaturity. Then, even more clearly, God help me. He clears his throat.

“Who won last time?”

Sherlock’s wolfish expression is enough of an answer. A moment passes, and John gives him his cup of tea. The pleased little hum he gets in response is all the thanks he could want.

“So, you’re not going to invite me to play with you?”

“No. This is incredibly boring.”

John sips his tea and Sherlock mirrors him. An idea strikes him.

“Well, we could make it a drinking game.”

Sherlock gestures dismissively at the board.

“What, take a shot if you make it buzz? Uninspired.”

This is not an unexpected response. John is ready for it.

“Alright. If you take out a piece successfully, I take a drink. If you fail, you take a drink. But,” he adds quickly, seeing his friend’s mouth open to object. “You can get out of drinking if you have a case-story about the corresponding body part. Then I have to drink two.”

“Likewise for you, with war stories, I suppose.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

They finish their tea and reset the game, checking that it all still works, and pour a few shots in preparation. Graciously - or connivingly, John can never be sure - Sherlock gestures for John to begin. The bucket poses no problems.

“Fluid retention in the knees. Story, or drink.”

With a sniff, Sherlock takes up a shotglass and upends it down his throat. He then takes the tweezers, considering what to select. John flaps a hand.

“Come on, slowpoke, don’t think too hard. Just grab something.”

His gaze flickering between the board and John’s face, Sherlock reaches for the charlie horse.

_zzzzzzz!_

“May, 2008. I was pursuing a counterfeiter in Stratford, and it seemed for a while he might have outrun me. But he kept looking back at me, and when he ran past a house being remodelled, hit his thigh on some of the refuse hanging out of the bin. He made it another half-dozen steps before the cramp registered. Idiot lay there screaming bloody murder, saying I’d shot him. You take two drinks.”

“You did that on purpose,” John accuses. Sherlock shrugs.

“I didn't break any rules.”

“Bastard.” He dutifully swallows both drinks, then refills the three empty glasses.

“Alright, my turn.” Out comes the horse. “No reusing stories.”

“Adding to the rules part-way through a game is poor form, John.” Nevertheless, he drinks. “Adam’s apple,” he declares a moment later, dropping the plastic on the table. John grins.

“Instructed a chaplain through an emergency roadside tracheotomy, once.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Go on.”

“He’d been saying he wanted to help out in a more immediate way, that was the funny thing. Anyway, he and this corporal, who’s just a kid, really, they’re driving back one day and they come across some soldiers who - well. Used to be soldiers. There seems to be one survivor, nasty chest wound, and they call it in, tell us they’ll bring him to us, but he’s choking, and once I got him to check it wasn't something lodged in his throat, I, uh, I told him what to do. Pocketknife and the outer tube of a pen, and he saved his life.”

Hard grey eyes meet placid blue, and after a long moment, Sherlock drinks. John’s face twitches, and he snorts.

“What? _What_? You were lying? That was a memory, not a fabrication; I can tell on your face.”

“Oh, yeah,” John replies easily, chuckling. “A memory of a television show.”

“John Watson, you are a _liar_ ,” Sherlock rumbles, but if he wanted to sound annoyed he was doing it wrong, because John rather thought Sherlock was _impressed_. That was a heady idea, so John focuses on extracting the spare ribs before he looks back at his friend.

“I can show you the records of this one,” Sherlock begins. “I doubt you will believe me, otherwise.”

“Tell me.”

“It was a cold case I picked up once when I was bored. A body was found, badly decomposed. Cause of death was undetermined, and the only anomaly the autopsy revealed was a thirteenth rib on her right side.”

“That’s not _that_ uncommon,” John counters, twisting the tweezers in his fingers.

“Shut up, John. I’ll spare you the details I know you don’t care for and skip right to the point. She was not born with a cervical rib.”

“But you said -”

“No. She had been stabbed in the neck with somebody else’s.”

“You are shitting me!”

“Nope.”

John shakes his head.

“I don’t even care if you’re lying, that’s a good one.” He lines up the drinks with his free hand. “One, two.” Sherlock is watching him. One. Two.

Warmth encloses his hand. Sherlock is sliding his fingers around John’s, and John is not sure the alcohol can be entirely responsible for the fizzing he feels through his limbs. The tweezers are taken from him; the fizzing stays. Shakily, Sherlock attempts to remove the funny bone.

_zzzzzzz!_

The harsh noise stuns John somewhat from his stupor.

“You didn't get it,” he says stupidly. Sherlock looks at him - not quite a glare - and drinks.

John goes for the butterfly. It’s not too difficult.

“Drink again, Sherlock.”

“No.”

“No? Are you… forfeiting?” He doubts Sherlock would notice that in people terribly often - it’s why he chose the piece.

“No. Butterflies in the stomach. Nervousness to the point of feeling ill. June 15, 2011.”

“Ju- _Sherlock_ ,” John breathes, his blood cold. “That’s not funny.”

“Obviously not. But you _said_ , John. You said I can get out of drinking if I have a related story.”

“I - I did.”

“I was… apprehensive, of course, in the days preceding the… event, as Mycroft and I co-ordinated it. But that morning; I've never known terror like it.”

“About the... stunt?”

“No, no, the danger there was minimal. Practically negligible. No, it wasn't that.”

“I don’t understand.”

“John! I had to call you, speak to you.”

“That’s not that scary.”

“It is when you are the only person I've known since I was six who could change my mind. I was scared you would convince me to not do it. I was petrified by what would happen if I told you the truth. And then, afterwards, the thought of finishing the task without you chilled me to the bone.”

“What… what would have happened if you told me the truth? What _was_ the truth.” John is just drunk enough to start to kid himself that this is a good conversation to have.

“If I didn’t kill myself, Moriarty’s men would kill you. If I didn’t convince you that’s what was happening - I have never encountered higher stakes.”

“I - ” He is suddenly concerned he may actually vomit. Sherlock seems upset by his reaction.

“Had you not guessed anything like this? Did you - have you - since I returned, did you think I left without you by _choice_?”

There is only one word John can think to say. “Sherlock.”

He is reaching for him and Sherlock is reaching back. When their lips meet, John cannot stop a small smile. It has taken nearly six years to come to this, but it takes only as many minutes until they are at the door to Sherlock’s bedroom. John’s jumper is still in the living room, and all the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt are undone. He traces over the scar left by the gunshot, then lower, on his side, finding patches of texture that say _scar_ to his fingertips. It’s not immediately visible, he realises.

“I know the story of the gunshot, more or less,” he starts gently, “but I don’t know this.”

“Still playing, are we,” Sherlock quips, seemingly mapping John’s hairline with his lips. John takes the opportunity to lick into the little hollow at the base of his throat.

“Mm-hmm. Irregular scar, lower right torso. Story, or I get a free go.”

He does not bother to clarify.

“I was quite young, and experimenting with my first lab set. Some rather exciting chemicals got on my hand, and in something of a panic, I wiped it off on my shirt. I stood at the sink for some minutes running my hand under water before I realised what had happened there.”

“Stupid,” John murmurs fondly.

“I was _eleven_ ,” Sherlock retorts. “My turn. You haven’t told me anything true yet.”

“Do I need to say anything, for you to know it? Just don’t ask about - ” He gestures stiffly at his left shoulder. “You can deduce what you like, if you keep it to yourself.”

“Very well.” John is led to sit at the edge of Sherlock’s bed, and the rest of his clothes are swiftly removed. Sherlock perches beside him and begins with the shoulder wound, pressing gently, scraping lightly with fingertips to test texture and sensation. When Sherlock begins manipulating his arm, observing how damaged muscles affect movement, and how movement affects scarred skin, John releases a satisfied hum. Sherlock kisses more of the same out of his mouth, and his eyes close. There begins a thorough inspection of his left arm, travelling from the already-investigated deltoid, through an extended stopover around the elbow, right down to phalanges. It is almost clinical, but for the frequent caress of lips on John’s skin. He is hovering hazily between ticklish and aroused, when Sherlock sucks the entirety of his forefinger into his mouth.

“Christ,” he mumbles while Sherlock swirls his tongue around the digit, sucking hard before pulling off. The same attention is given to his right arm.

“Lean forward now,” he prompts, so John rests his elbows on his knees, and the focus is shifted to his back and shoulders. Tense muscles are poked and squeezed, making John jerk away a little.

“Oi. I wouldn't be opposed to a massage, but that’s just not on.”

In response, impossibly large hands sweep firmly over his ribs. A gust of warm air at his neck is all the warning he gets before lips and tongue trace down his spine, blessing each vertebra with attention. Sherlock’s hands come to rest on John’s hips, fingers wedging into the crease between leg and torso. At the base of his spine, Sherlock shifts slightly to dart his tongue shallowly into John’s cleft. He jolts, then stills.

“ _Sherlock_.”

But he can feel the mattress move as Sherlock slides away.

“Lie down, John.”

He settles himself on the pillows, but then surges up to grasp at Sherlock and pull.

“C’mere.” This time when he lays back, he has Sherlock spread over him, and he holds him close, tight, as they kiss. He bucks against the lean body, but is firmly held down.

“Enough of that,” Sherlock chides. “I haven’t finished yet.”

With some work John stills. He can see Sherlock watching his face.

“When will you,” he asks breathlessly, “finish?”

There is no immediate reply, just a graze of fingertips over his sternum. They trace down to his stomach, which John instinctively pulls in and tenses.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Relax,” Sherlock insists. When he seems satisfied, he leans down to suck a mark just under John's ribs. John’s cock throbs and he groans as Sherlock brushes against him.

“Patience,” he croons into John’s hip, the one that was ‘the bad one’ before the cab chase years ago. His legs receive the same attention as his arms, although he does get a brief foot massage. He wiggles his toes in Sherlock’s grasp.

“S'nice. I like that.”

“I can see that,” Sherlock replies, droll. “Do you always get this aroused receiving attention to your feet?”

“Nah. Just you.” He wonders if he’s showing his hand a little more than he intended, but Sherlock chuckles and pats his shin.

“Roll over.” His face is open and earnest and John swallows.

“I really shouldn't keep letting you tell me what to do,” he grumbles as he turns, resting his head on his forearms. John can’t say he’s not a bum man, but he’s still bemused by how much time Sherlock devotes to rubbing his arsecheeks. He grinds against the sheets a little.

“Come on, Sherlock.”

Obligingly, he pulls a single finger over John’s hole. John shivers pleasantly, and Sherlock hums.

“So this is not entirely new to you,” he states, like confirming a suspicion.

“It's been so long it might as well be.”

Sherlock makes a noise of assent and continues to rub against him for a moment. He shifts his weight, which John cannot discern, until he feels a hot breath against him.

“Fuck,” he gasps, before he registers a soft, wet tongue right against his arse, and he loses his entire vocabulary. John's pretty proud of what he can do for a woman with his mouth, but he wants to take _notes_ because Sherlock is breaking his mind; he's kissing him, kissing him with lips and tongue, purposefully, but unhurried. It's filthy, yes, in the best way, but not crude or demanding like this usually seemed in videos - quite the opposite. Sherlock is methodical and attentive, in this as in all things, and John feels himself relaxing. The spit-slicked muscle rubs over him, lines and circles, pressing against, dipping into him the slightest bit. He thinks he might never recover. Then, with a quick kiss to the crest of one cheek, Sherlock moves away.

“The hell you going,” John manages. He realises his eyes have closed again as he props himself up and looks around. Sherlock is picking through his drawer, producing a bottle of lubricant.

“And condoms, yeah?” he says, settling back down. A beat of stillness stretches uncomfortably; it makes him look back at Sherlock again, who is now standing stiffly, trousers straining, hands clenched around the lube, face tight with what looks surprisingly like shame. His cheeks are smeared with his own saliva. Despite himself, John smiles fondly. The berk didn't plan everything, then - he might not have planned anything, and John cannot bear to see embarrassment on Sherlock’s beautiful features.

“Ah, no, don’t worry, there’s one in my wallet.” Sherlock is immediately all action, pouncing on John’s jeans and tearing out the little packet from his wallet.

“I was starting to wonder if - I mean, I didn't know if you’d even have lube.” Laying as he was, he could see a little of Sherlock as he strips his clothes and rolls on the condom - enough to see the familiar sneer.

“Not being a helpless slave to my sex drive does not automatically mean I don’t have one.” He settles into place, slotting one knee between John’s thighs. “What were you doing, wondering if I had any?”

“Wanking furiously, mostly,” John admits, enjoying the surprised tensing of Sherlock over him. It’s undoubtedly retaliation, then, the cold lube dripped onto his crack to ooze between the cheeks. “What were you using it for?”

“Imagining this.” A slick finger pushes down his perineum and back, gentle but insistent pressure against his entrance. “Having access to all of you.” He slips a fingertip inside. John keeps himself relaxed against the intrusion. “Or I would open myself for you to take me. Will you take me, John?”

“Christ, Sherlock. I couldn't tonight. Next - next time?”

Sherlock practically _purrs_ , bending down to nip John’s shoulder with his teeth. “Yes.”

He sets himself to the task at hand, easing his finger in and out, stretching the muscles to allow a second and eventually a third. John feels like a puddle of want by the time Sherlock decides he’s ready. Slowly, steadily, he pushes in, in.

“John.”

It’s _glorious_ interspersed with brief, rare flickers of _uncomfortable_ , but John supposes that’s a benefit of having Sherlock Holmes as a lover - he notices what works and what doesn't, and he is ever the perfectionist. He turns his head, seeking, and Sherlock kisses him again. John tries to curl his fingers into the inky curls. He frowns.

“Goddamnit.”

Sherlock stills immediately.

“What is it? Do you need me to-”

“No, I just - this doesn't feel fair. I’m not doing anything for you.”

“On the contrary,” Sherlock corrects, undulating his hips. “You do everything for me.”

“You know what I mean,” he grouses.

“I do. You want to move.”

“Mm.”

When Sherlock pulls out, John rolls and sits up.

“I want to see you.”

Sherlock nods, reclining on his bed, and gestures to John, inviting him closer. He straddles him, closing his eyes as he carefully sinks down, but doesn't expect, really, for Sherlock to surge up to kiss him, holding him close to keep them both upright. They rock together, shallowly, every other thrust or so grazing his prostate. John shudders and squeezes a hand between them to wrap around himself.

“No,” Sherlock says into his mouth. “Let me.”

With Sherlock inside and around and under and against him, John can barely breathe. He can, however, grasp at Sherlock’s hair, enjoying the gasps and growls he gets when he pulls. And then - he’s almost there. Bucking desperately to fuck through Sherlock’s fist, he sobs in bliss when he picks up his pace.

“Will you still do what I tell you?” Sherlock asks, equally breathless.

“Do I ever not?” John grits into his shoulder.

“Good. Come.”

He whines, but Sherlock has timed his order well. As his orgasm shudders through him, he realises he has sunk his teeth into the meat of Sherlock’s shoulder. He tries to soothe it with licks and kisses. When he thinks he might be able to speak coherently, he mumbles, “You can keep going, if you want to.”

But Sherlock, clutching him tight to his chest, tips them carefully sideways and disengages. John finds himself smiling dreamily as kisses are dropped on his brow and cheek. He watches Sherlock strip off the condom and get a little more lube before laying back down, scant inches between them. He watches him pump himself steadily, and wriggles closer. John is not unaware of the possibility of this being a stand-alone event, and tries to clear his mind of afterglow and alcohol to remember everything accurately.

“May I?” he breathes, reaching out to ghost his fingers over Sherlock’s, who removes his hand to let John stroke him. Soft curls of hair brush John’s forehead, and he knows they are sharing breath, but he daren't look anywhere but at his hand and the flesh it holds.

“John, please.” He nods and speeds up, massaging carefully over the head.

“No, John. John. I… Look at me, John.”

“Can’t,” he whispers, butting foreheads gently.

“I need - John, I need you to look at me, please.”

John sighs.

“Why?”

“Why won’t you?”

“Because - because you’re so lovely, Sherlock. You’re so beautiful, and if - God, this is stupid - if I look at you now, I’ll fall even more in - You don’t want... I don’t want that.”

Sherlock groans and ruts against him, encircling his cock along with John’s fingers in his own hand. Squeezing a little tighter, he slows the motion down.

“You don’t know what I want, John Watson,” he rumbles.

“So tell me,” he replies affably, glad to steer the conversation to somewhat safer ground. “What do you want, right now?”

He could hear Sherlock inhale, could see his chest expand, but then he freezes. Risking a glance up, he could see his eyes downcast, and cheeks flushing red.

“Sherlock? You can tell me; anything.”

“Can - I just want to - can I… Would you let me come on you?”

John crashes his mouth against Sherlock’s.

“God, you idiot. That’s fine. That is so fine. Come on.”

He rolls away and Sherlock follows, swinging a leg over his hip. When he sits up, his gaze stays low, and John finds his own is now, despite his earlier assertions, locked on Sherlock’s face. The moment of climax paints across that face, and it transfixes John such that he barely notices it painting his own skin. Blinking slowly, he realises Sherlock is staring back at him, and another long collection of seconds pass.

“You’re looking at me,” he hears.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

Sherlock frowns, the little crinkle appearing between his eyebrows. He lays down once more, although now he hitches his knee up on John’s thigh and rests his hand on John’s chest, counting heartbeats.

“I have taken great pains to avoid your death, John, and I plan to continue to do so until we've retired to the country and the biggest risk you’ll face is the steps down to the garden getting slippery after rain.”

John could do nothing but blink in surprise for a while. “You've put some thought into this.”

Shrugging, Sherlock pulls John’s hand to his mouth and kisses it.


End file.
